(Originally Published in On the Level, the magazine of the BMW Riders Association.)
This week marked a new, low watermark for my already abysmally bad judgment in the buying and selling of old motorcycles. Let me explain: On Tuesday, in an unusual spasm of practicality and good judgment, I sold my Honda CRF250L dirt bike. I just wasn’t riding it enough.
So there I was, with a fat wad of cash in my fist. This is the point at which any reasonable person would proceed directly to the bank and make a big deposit, after which the money could be used in the purchase of groceries, articles of clothing, cleaning supplies, and other sensible things.
But noo. On Wednesday, before the cash had the opportunity to settle in my linty pocket, I handed it to a buddy selling a 1986 Honda TLR200 Reflex trials bike. This new (to me) old motorcycle now resides under cover in the side yard, because the garage is, well, full of other old motorcycles.
So there you have it: One old crock sold, another purchased, in less than 24 hours. The money had lasted as long as a drop of brake cleaner on the garage floor, evaporating before you even knew it was there. In the pantheon of bad moto decisions that I’ve made, this was a doozy.
Bad Geoff!
Trials and Tribulations
So, why buy a wheezing, 13-horsepower trials bike with an aspirational top speed of 50 mph, no seat, and a kick-starter?
When I started riding dirt bikes at age 11, I quickly noticed that all my buddies were a lot faster than I was. (Come to think of it, this has remained stubbornly true, lo these many years.) At the same time, I also noticed that I was a lot better than my fellow groms at making tight turns around trees, going over small logs, and fording streams (in those moments when I wasn’t doing a face plant). Hence, I decided that my way to fame and fortune on a motorcycle was to ride trials, a sport where the object is to surmount obstacles without touching a foot down (speed is no object).
The sport has a rich history that’s full of guys in waxed cotton jackets and tweed caps riding through freezing streambeds in Scotland while smoking cigarettes. Usually, these stout gentlemen were astride wheezing one-lung motorcycles from the annals of British history—brands like Triumph, Norton, and Greeves.
In my typical obsessive fashion, I began emulating the heroes of the day, like Bernie Schreiber and Mick Andrews, even down to a white Bell Helmets cap. I rode with incredible style and grace—until I fell down in the Connecticut mud, which was often. I even competed a few times, in both motorcycle and bicycle trials (see photo).
Trials motorcycles have a special minimalist appeal, featuring low gears, big flywheels, a fender that just skims the front wheel, knobby tires that aren’t too knobby, and, famously, a seat the size of a Dr. Scholl’s bunion pad.
Sadly, the little Honda Reflex is considered to be a real trials bike by exactly no one. It’s heavy, underpowered, and has flaccid suspension. But it looks the part, with its swoopy body work and handsome black engine. And mine is actually street legal, which means I can ride it to the trailhead—if I can stand it. Though the bike is rated to 50 mph, at about 45, it sounds like it’s either going to: 1) Launch itself to the moon, or 2) Explode in a Honda Reflex supernova.
No matter. For now, I’m having fun. In my mind, I am multi-time world champion Toni Bou, deftly surmounting automobiles, enormous culverts, and concrete abutments. In reality, I am experimenting with the radius of my U-turns in the driveway and surmounting Coke cans. Most important, I’m trying not to fall down while the neighbors are watching.
One Thing that Bugs Me
Though I’m pleased with my purchase, there’s one thing that’s driving me mad: a spider has taken up residence (and subsequently croaked) under the glass in my speedometer. I see him every time I look down at the astoundingly low speed on the instrument. Next to my arachnid friend is an elaborate cobweb structure that he apparently constructed for my benefit before expiring. I’d like to sweep it away with the speedometer needle, but the spider castle resides around the 60 mph point on the dial, and the brave little engine will only muster 50 with a tailwind.
Because I am retired and have no life, these are the things I think about. If you have suggestions regarding arachnid extractions from vintage dirt bike speedos, please send them to this magazine, care of the editor, who will put them in the special bin devoted to me and people like me.
The label on the front says, “Hopeless Cases.”